


She Walks in Beauty

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger to the universe, and stranger still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Walks in Beauty

They say she's not from around here, 'they' being the other two private investigators. They say it but he knew it better than anyone. Not that he said it. That would be rude of him. The inspector still knew it, not because of her unfamiliar accent, nor the spontaneity of her reputation, but because he felt not a single resonance of himself within her. 

She sits in the corner of the speakeasy, clad in a fine black coat and a broad-rimmed hat that casts her face in shadow. When she gets up to use the restroom they say she walks as if she owns the town. They're wrong, though. She walks as though the town's not worth owning. He doesn't say that, of course. That would be impolite. Still, it jabs at his pride just a bit. 

His two partners- in both drinking and business, notice his gaze upon her and react predictably. 

"Got an eye for the dame eh? Maybe you've got a bit of a stiff pickle you'd like her to inspect, eh? Eh? Show her the old tootsie-roll?" The sleuth throws in a few playful elbow jabs to the ribs.

"Hehe, yeah. If you don't make a move maybe I'll give her the dick myself, if you know what I mean." The detective slaps him on the back heartily and gulps down another glass of bootleg liquor. 

Rumor has it the prohibition on alcohol was supposed to have been abolished years ago, but the gangs running the speakeasies put a stop to that. Wouldn't want to lose all your customers to honest joints after all.

"For the last time, Ace, that doesn't count as a euphemism. Really, though Pickle, you should probably forget it. I hear she's tangled up with that crook Slick."

"You might be right." The inspector spoke up. "By the way, I hear you closed the book on the case of the malt-chocolate falcon. How did that turn out?"

"Ugh, terrible. You'd think a mostly cocoa beak would be mostly harmless. You'd be wrong, and I'm glad the damned thing is dead. So it all started when this broad shows up at my office holding a bloody chef's hat."

The inspector nods along as his friend tells the story. The man loves the sound of his own voice and never passes up a chance to hear it. He keeps his case files on audio cassettes just so he could listen to them later. It was a harmless vice, and the inspector didn't mind. It kept him easy to deal with, if nothing else. 

The story wound down and another wound up being told and then another and the inspector made sure to keep the drinks topped up. Midnight comes and goes.

"So then Slick says, get this, he leans out the window and says 'knife to run you the fuck over in my car, sons of bitches!' except he's so short his foot can't reach the peddle anymore and when he notices he moves back over and slams it, but he must have hit the brakes instead. So he goes flying out the missing windscreen, cursing like a sailor, right off the pier. Next thing I know he's screaming 'bout how he can't swim and half his crew are trying to fish him out while the tall guy just stands there laughing at him. So naturally I made I heroic escape by walking off while they were distracted."

"A thrilling tale, Problem. Bravo." chuckles the inspector, who has already heard it five times before. 

"Hey, Ace, you alright there buddy?" The sleuth prods at their portly friend, now face down against the counter. The detective gurgles wetly. 

"Still lacks the imagination for heavy drinking, it seems." The inspector mutters into his cup.

"Yeash, yeah. I'd better make sure he gets home."

"Need a hand?"

"And have you break your skinny twig arms? Leave it to the guys with more VIM. No offence."

"None taken. Get home safe."

The sleuth heaves his friend over his shoulder and together they slowly make their way out of the speakeasy. Once they were gone the inspector sighs contently and orders another drink. Friends were nice, but they could be tiring. 

After taking a few minutes to relax, he looks up and sees her observing him from across the room. She takes the cigarette holder from her mouth and blows a ring of smoke his direction. He gulps down the rest of his drink, fidgets with his tie, and gulps again for good measure before walking over to her.

"Tell me," she says with regal enunciation. "you in a hurry to meet death?"

"We've met, actually. Very polite fellow and quite a knack for sudoku." He tries not to chuckle too awkwardly. She laughs, cheery but composed, and only briefly. Then she falls quiet and closes her eyes.

"We must know different deaths then. So what's a pretty face like yours doing in a place like this?" 

"Well it's a, a nice atmosphere isn't it?" 

"Show a little more backbone, pretty boy, or are you just wasting my time?"

"Well it might be a bit rude of me to say, but people are a lot like puzzles, and lots of different people come through here."

"Is that right?"

"Oh! It's not for anything unseemly. It's good practice for my work. I'm a-"

"No need, I have heard of you. Pickle Inspector."

"Then I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss?"

"Snowman. They call me Snowman." 

"Snowman?" He glances up at the number eight on her hat, only now close enough to read. His eyes flit down her coat clad body and linger a moment too long on her narrow waist and shapely hips. "Snowman, I see. That's clever." He snaps his eyes shut and fidgets with his tie. When he opens them again she's looking at him with smile sharp enough to leave scars. 

"Walk with me, pretty boy." She rises from her seat and tugs on his tie. The inspector swallows and obediently follows. 

Outside the night air's briskness only punctuates the heat under his collar, which he blames on the alcohol. Under the city lights her black coat and dark skin gain a glittering green sheen. The inspector squints. Is that just the lights?

They walk side by side, neither saying a word, each watching the other out the corner of their eye. She looks much more at home under the cloudless night than inside the bar, he thinks. Tiny shimmering lights and endless dark, she embodies the best of that juxtaposition. Her composure also feels more relaxed to him than before, and though they remain silent he dares think her more tender. They step out from under a street side alcove and she stops to turn to him.

The moon lights up half of her upturned face. His hand covers his mouth, and whatever she had to say remains unsaid. Her sharp brow, her strong cheeks, the eloquent half smile on her lips, they leave him mute and lunatic. With gentle firmness she pulls his hand away and pulls him down by the tie into a kiss. Her teeth cinch his lower lip and press just sharply enough to loose a single small bead of blood. They break apart, and with an incomparable elegance she smears the bead across her black lips.

Something in her eyes gleams and the inspector jumps back. A crack resounds up and down the city street. 

"There it is." She grips her whip with both hands. The other end is coiled tightly around the inspector's ring of keys. Were he any slower it would have snapped his neck. "I knew you had a danger to you. Dark gods, look at those eyes."

The inspector quietly stares her down.

"Those aren't the eyes of someone wondering if they can kill. Those are the eyes of someone wondering how they should kill."

"I like to think of myself as a very nice person, thank you very much. I just have a very good imagination." 

"I'll bet you do." She lets the whip slacken and fall, then coils it up and puts in away. The inspector tucks his keys away likewise, and she grins. "My place is nearby. You should join me."

"Can I trust you not to try and kill me again?"

"Don't worry, you'll be safe."

"I know I'll be safe. It's just really rude of you to try." 

"You'd better hurry pretty-boy. You keep talking like that and I won't make it to the bedroom."

 

Her hotel groom is almost entirely green. He removes his shoes when he enters, along with his hat and coat, all with methodical precision. In contrast she flings off one garment after another in a manner that would be slovenly on anyone lacking her grace. She makes getting undressed in a hurry look appropriate for a ballroom. In a matter of seconds she's down to her underdress and garters while he's barely gotten his tie off. She turns on her heel and sashays towards him. She leans in, pressing her breasts against his chest, close enough that he can smell the anise liquor on her breath. With one slender finger she tugs down his shirt, popping the buttons one by one.

"I liked that shirt."

"We always destroy what we cherish." She flicks the switch beside his head, dimming the lights, and lingers to brush her hand against his cheek before falling back. Tugging on his suspenders she leads him to the bedroom. 

The bed and the room around it is green too, but with the lights dimmed it's hardly noticeable. She sits herself on the edge of the bed and leans back. The straps fallen to the wayside, her underdress threatens to slip and expose her breasts at the slightest disturbance.

"You said people are like puzzles. Well then? Have you puzzled me out yet?"

"I could never imagine a puzzle like you."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." She licks her lips in playful taunt as she shifts attention to the unspoken. There's more to the decision than just how much you trust a stranger. Even if no one finds out, if you know you made the decision for shoddy reasons then that knowledge can track mud through your reflection. 

"You're quite lucky I've been drinking tonight." The inspector replies, removing his now buttonless shirt from under his suspenders. After all, isn't it nice to drop all pretenses once in a while? Even if you don't do anything, surely its good to be open about what you can do. The inspector closes his eyes, and imagines.

 

The godhead opens his three eyes. He is the demiurge, who made the universe from his own flesh. His many arms make gestures of prayer and reverence. One waves shyly. Snowman has not changed like he has, but she has changed. Her black skin glistens with countless lights, and he realizes his early folly. She does not bring out the night. She is the night. Her transparent skin reveals within her a limitless space, filled with billions and billions of stars and planets each one unique and wonderful. Her eyes are windows to a pair radiant white suns each so very very old. Her cheeks glimmer with starlight freckles. She lets her underdress fall to the floor, past countless light-years of flawless beauty. The curve of her breasts is the curve of space-time, and her aureole glimmer with the whorl of nebulae. Her navel is a breathtaking black hole, and her stomach is a sea of constellations. Star systems and galaxies swim in and out of focus under the godhead's gaze, and his third eye sees something hidden further still. Deep within her chest, supremely deep, at the center of the entire universe- a beating, perfectly, endlessly blue heart.

The godhead fondly regards the universe, and is in turn fondly regarded by the universe, unashamed in their nakedness. The godhead kneeled before her, and Snowman parted her legs in welcome. He places his head between her thighs and breathes deeply the scent of cosmos. He anoints her labia with his tongue, basking in her light, and coaxes out her clit with lavish kisses. She twines her fingers through his hair, tugging and teasing and holding him against her, grinding against his face until his mouth glistens from a sheen of her. With his tongue he explores and celebrates the depths of her flesh, making learned her soft nuances and their corresponding gasps of approval. When her orgasm comes it quakes through her, and her whole body glows as countless stars at the end of their life enter supernova. She cries out in jubilant praises to dark forces in an accent unfamiliar.

It only takes for sharp pants for her to regain composure, and she gives up her hold on his hair. Together they rise. His hardness rests against her stomach and leaves a silvery trail against her navel's sky. With star-freckled hands she guides him, and when he pushes into her she bites her lip with such hardness that her dagger teeth draw blood. Lifting her chin he presses his lips against hers again and again until their mouths bear matching blue smears. Face to face they quench their carnal desires. He pushes up into her with strong, sharp thrust, and with his many arms the godhead ministrates upon Snowman's body. He grasps and kneads her buttocks, rubs her thigh, brushes her cheek, holds her shoulder, and strokes her back. He massages her breasts, teases her nipples, and squeezes her hand. His fingers dance and weave across the star-dusty realms of her surface. Her breath is hot as solar wind and with her other hand she scratches at his back in ecstasy. His blood flows from her scratches, and where it falls bloom sugarcane and flowers. 

When she has her second orgasm her face burns flush with a thousand quasars and she must lean into the godhead to stay standing. With a relieved moan he ceases to hold back his own from coming. They hold each other tightly, gasping with pleasure and joy. She takes his seed into her. Each basks in the others presence.

 

Later, they lay together on her bed, naked but undesiring, tired but sleepless. A small garden now grows in the middle of the room. The godhead turns to Snowman, smiling, and hands her a flower.

"What's this?" She rolls it by the stem back and forth between her fingers.

"A lotus. Thanks for a night I never could have imagined."

"You're not such a bad lay yourself, pretty boy."

The godhead regards her fondly. He does not fear the morning but he knows it will be unpleasant. It would be rude to ask the night sky to never leave his side. It would be rude to ask the cosmos to never meet him again, even if that would be easier. It would be rude to place the burden of his loneliness on someone else, even if he is living inside a universe he just imagined into existence.

**Author's Note:**

> A little warm-up since I haven't done any fics in a while. Inspired by Lord Byron's poem of the same name.


End file.
